


Right this Way, Partner

by nanuk_dain



Series: Partners [1]
Category: Rambo Series
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-25
Updated: 2011-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanuk_dain/pseuds/nanuk_dain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been alone for so long that he's forgotten what it feels like to have a partner. He certainly never expected to find one in a young small town deputy with hair like fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right this Way, Partner

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gosh, don't ask me what happened. I was just in for a merry rewatch of Rambo (oh yes, the childhood memories... ^^) and *bang*, there she was, my Muse, with a nice wee inspiration for some Rambo slash... I tried something new, a style I haven't used so far, but it's what my Muse commanded, so I obeyed. The title is a quote from Mitch, it's the very first thing he says to John. Oh, and you should probably know the movie or at least the general plot, or this won't make much sense ^^

It's a flash of red, and although he sees it only out of the corner of his eye, it catches his attention in a way he can't define. Then there is a voice, low and not tinged with the hostility he's heard in all the other voices since his arrival. “Right this way, partner. Right here.”

John feels something rip through him at those words, something like a memory of times that are long past now, never to come back. 'Partner'. It's something Ortega always said, with that little spark of amusement that made the men smile. But they're all dead now. Ortega won't ever say 'partner' again.

There is the feeling of a hand on his arm where the young deputy touches him, the grip of his hand warm even through the fabric, firm but without malevolent intent. John turns to look at him, to categorise him in the way he's adapted ever since entering the service, since he's been trained to observe everything and everyone.

The deputy is the spot of red John has noticed, it's the colour of his hair, bright and burning. The man is tall, a bit taller than John, his built lean and wiry with the last traces of youth. There is an aura of innocence, of decency, around him that catches John unexpectedly. He leads the way into the basement where the cells are and John follows, taking in the way the man moves.

Later, when the young deputy reaches for his dog tags, John can't control the reflex, his hand shoots out and his fingers close around the man's wrist. The skin under his fingertips is warm and he can feel the taunt muscles where the hand is clenched into a fist. The older deputy has his baton out, ready to strike.

John doesn't fear the baton. There's nothing this ridiculous man could do to him that he hasn't already lived through. What makes him let go is the intense gaze of the young deputy's blue eyes, the almost pleading note in his voice that tells him that the redhead doesn't want to hurt him and tries to keep the old deputy from doing so without openly opposing him. John respects that and loosens his grip, lets the young deputy grab his dog tags. Before he pulls the chain off his neck, the blue eyes find his again, and for a moment it feels like they ask for permission.

When John's ordered to undress, he follows reluctantly. He knows what he looks like, knows every scar that runs over his skin, remembers every moment of their creation. He hates them, hates the memories they trigger every time he sees them. For the past decade, he's never once stood in front of the mirror with his shirt off.

He hears the horrified tone in the low voice he's come to associate with the redhead once he removes his shirt. It's a a spontaneous reaction, it's honest and heartfelt, and in some strange way, it makes John feel better. He can't remember the last time anybody cared.

***

Being the youngest member of the Hope Police Department means that he is at the bottom of the pecking order, and Mitch knows that. He knows he has nothing to say, knows the older men have the first right to everything, and he has no right to criticise. He's used to it, and normally, he doesn't have much problem with this arrangement. The first time resistance flares inside him, bright and strong and unexpected, is when Galt hits the man – Rambo – in the back with his baton. A man who isn't a danger at this moment, who has his hands over his head. It goes against everything Mitch has been taught, against his sense of right and wrong, and he steps in before he's consciously thought about it.

“Galt, what the fuck was that?”

“Well, the sheriff said 'clean him up'.” Galt says with a pleased tone to his voice, then he steps back and kicks the man on the ground in the ribs. At this moment, Mitch feels sick with repulsion for his older colleague, and he has to fight the urge to yell at him.

Galt walks past him, throwing him a gaze that's meant to be a challenge. “Clean him up.”

Mitch doesn't say a word, but he feels his lips curl in disgust, and he's lucky Galt has passed him without seeing it.

***

John feels the pain spread all over his lower back where the baton hit him hard. Another pain comes from his right side where the old deputy's boot connected with John's ribs. He knows he could fight back, but it's not worth the hassle. He wouldn't know where else to go, anyway.

He hears footsteps coming close, then somebody kneels next to him. John feels a hand on his arm and hears the redhead's low voice ask an almost silent question before he helps him up.

“Hey, you okay?”

***

The noise of the hose is loud in the small room, its powerful jet of water hitting the man's back with enough strength to press him against the tiles. The cheers and laughter of the men cut through the noise, however, and the insults are perfectly understandable.

Mitch turns his head away, tries not to look, because he knows he might do something stupid if he watches one moment longer how his colleagues enjoy hurting the man. It's their duty to serve and protect, not to hurt people who're their responsibility. He turns and leaves, Galt's vile shouts following him down the corridor.

It's then that the first seed of doubt is sown in his mind.

***

It's the warm hand on his elbow that keeps John grounded. He can't tell why, but the young deputy's presence helps him to focus, to stay in this world and not to drift into another one, filled with pain and shadows. He's noticed how the young man seems to hover close by, drifting inbetween him and the other deputies ever so often, as if he's trying to act as a shield.

When he's escorted into a cell and one of the older deputies comes in with a tablet with shaving utensils, John knows he's in trouble. He knows he's unable to let another person close to his neck with a blade in their hand, especially those men here who've shown every intention to harm him.

“He's just going to shave you, partner. Take it easy.”

He hears the redhead's low voice trying to calm him, telling him it's only a shave, but John feels his heartbeat speed up, feels adrenaline pump through his veins, feels his throat constrict although his breath is coming in pants.

It's not the razor that triggers his panic. It's the tone in the older deputy's voice; the obvious dark pleasure he takes in hurting somebody, the anticipation to demonstrate superiority, to know somebody is at his mercy. It's the same kind of tone in any language, one doesn't need to understand the words to get their meaning.

John has heard it too often, in different languages, and when he looks into the older deputy's eyes, dark with vicious pleasure, his instincts kick in.

***

Mitch can see it in the man's eyes. They're unnaturally wide, fixed on the blade, and in the dark depths he can read fear, panic even. He can't help wondering where the man is right now, because he's certainly it isn't the police station. He seems far gone, in a world where he was obviously tortured, because that's what those scars all over his body say.

Mitch wonders if the others can't see it, if they don't pick up on the level of anxiousness the man radiates. When he hears him scream, there is so much pain and agony in the sound that it makes Mitch's skin crawl with horror. Only a moment later, he feels a boot connect with his chest and he falls backwards from the impact. He can't say he's too surprised that the man tries to escape, but the sudden violence still hits him unexpectedly.

When he's back on his feet, Mitch raises his arms in an attempt to calm the man, but in the commotion, his gesture is useless. The second hit is executed with a flat hand, more a slap than a punch, and Mitch rows back more in surprise than pain. The figure of the man disappears through the hallway and when Mitch gets back up and looks at bad shape of the others, he knows that Rambo guy could have hurt him far more than he did.

***

John runs. He feels more at home in the woods than in any town, and he moves with the ease of routine. He knows the men will come after him. Here though, they're in his turf. Here, he's superior to them, even with inadequate weaponry.

He just has to set his traps and wait for them to step right in.

***

A Green Beret. That explains a lot.

Mitch can't help a certain pride that his gut feeling has been correct. There is something to the man that had attracted his attention from the very beginning. He'd known that he wasn't just some drifter. And Mitch is right. He's a Green Beret.

He can't say what it is that makes the Sheriff lose it, but the moment Mitch feels one hand claw into his arm and the other clench in his hair in a painful grip, he feels only resentment. Towards the sheriff and towards Galt, even if he knows he shouldn't think ill of the dead and Mitch certainly hadn't wished Galt to die. But he's seen a side of Galt that makes him dislike the man intensely, and it's the same side he sees in Ward and the sheriff.

Mitch knows he's on the edge when they begin to climb the hillside. He still thinks it's a bad idea, and what happened to Galt only proves him right in his opinion. Ward calls him a pussy when he pleads for them to get back before the storm hits them, and Mitch snaps and jumps at his colleague with all the pent up anger he felt ever since they started to mistreat Rambo. The sheriff gets between them before either can land a punch, and it leaves Mitch frustrated and even more angry than before. He can't help the feeling that the sheriff has lost his common sense. His sole focus is on hunting down Rambo, never mind the risk and losses. The seriff's obsessed, and it's messing with his mind.

Mitch follows reluctantly. He's still sure that they're in over their heads in something they're neither equipped nor trained to deal with. This should go to the State Police, he thinks while he trails after the others up the hill.

***

John takes them out, one after the other. They're easy targets; their movements are to uncontrolled, they're too loud, they don't follow a logical strategy, they don't know how to communicate without using words that give their positions away. They're amateurs.

It's easy to manoeuvre the men where he wants them to be. He leaves the sheriff and the redhead as the last men standing. He takes out the young deputy with a hit to the back of his neck and leaves him unconscious on the ground, then he hunts for the sheriff. It's almost ridiculous how easy it is to press his blade to the man's neck, just this side of too hard in order to draw a little blood as a reminder.

John warns the sheriff to back off, to leave him alone, to let it go. The man is shivering under his grip, and John presses his knife a bit deeper to emphasize his point. He's just pulling back to disappear in the infinity of the woods when he hears a noise too close by for his comfort. He turns with the speed of years of training and his knife presses against the throat of the redhead.

The young deputy's eyes are wide, the blue almost swallowed by the black of his blown pupils. For the first time since his training as a soldier began, John hesitates. Somewhere deep down in his gut, in that part where his instincts live, he knows that he won't stab the young deputy like he should. He just knows that he can't.

There's no time to think about this, thought, so he just grabs the man by his arm, pulling him up and pushing him up the hill. He has no idea what he's going to do with him. He never meant to take prisoners in this war.

***

“He has Mitch.” The Sheriff announces without preamble to Dave from the State Police, his voice dark with rage. He watches his men being transported into the ambulances that are parked on the muddy ground. “We have to get this son of a bitch.”

***

The man, Rambo, isn't at all like Mitch has expected. He isn't brutal, doesn't hurt him on purpose, doesn't try to force him to reveal any information. He is silent and intense in a way that makes Mitch's skin prickle, and he isn't sure if it's an unpleasant feeling or not.

They climb higher and higher through the dense forest until there's the dark entrance hole to the old mine. It's the one his mother always told him not to enter because it's old and unstable, but Mitch had done it anyway. He knows parts of the tunnels, but Rambo leads him deeper in than he's ever gone. He seems to know exactly where he's going, never hesitating one moment even in the dark that is only broken by the torch he's made. At some point he stops and throws the torch somewhere, and out of nowhere there is a fire coming to life in the middle of the tunnel. Mitch flinches back in reflex. There's something impaled on a self-made spit over the fire, and it takes Mitch's eyes a moment to adapt to the light, then he can make out that it's some kind of meat. It's then that he realises that Rambo must have prepared this fire pit in advance, knowing he'd return for the night.

Rambo gestures for him to sit down, then he comes over, kneels down next to him and loosens the cord he'd tied around Mitch's wrists. He doesn't say a word, but his stern gaze finds Mitch's and he can hear the 'Don't try anything stupid' without it being said. He just nods and sits back against the rough stone wall of the tunnel, rubbing his wrists and watching Rambo prepare the food with efficient movements that indicate routine. It's strangely beautiful to watch.

After some time, Rambo cuts off a huge chunk of the meat and hands it over to Mitch who accepts it after a moment of hesitation. He hasn't noticed how hungry he is until he feels the food on his tongue. It's surprisingly good, although there's a strong taste of burnt wood to it. Mitch watches Rambo over the fire that separates them and wonders what had happened to bring a war hero to this point. Mitch has always been bad at keeping his mouth shut, even when he knows that he really should, and so the question is out before he can keep it back. “So you're a Green Beret. What's it like?”

For a moment Rambo seems to freeze, than he raises his head very slowly. When his eyes meet Mitch's, they're not cold or empty. They're burning with raw emotion, with a pain so deep that Mitch feels it cut into his own soul, and he desperately wishes he could take his words back.

“You wouldn't understand.” The dark voice answers and the gaze leaves Mitch, returning to the food in his hand.

“Try me.” Mitch replies, and again it's out before he can control his mouth.

“I wouldn't want you to understand.” Rambo says with a tone in his voice that Mitch can't quite place. “It's a good thing that you don't.”

Mitch stays quiet after that, his mind busy pondering over the strange sensation that Rambo is trying to protect him from something he can't quite fathom.

***

Red. A reflection of fire, bright and fierce.

It's like an obsession. John can't look away for long, his eyes always return to the redhead who's leaning against the stone with his shoulder, his hands bound behind his back again, his face relaxed in sleep, despite the uncomfortable position.

Maybe it's this aura of innocence and decency, the one John noticed when he first saw him, that attracts his gaze again and again. It's something John hasn't seen on anybody for a long time, and he wonders if that's why he reacts to it like the moth to the flame. The young deputy seems strangely pure, never mind that his job or his age should have taught him how unforgiving the world is, should have left him disenchanted and maybe even bitter. He's not, though, and John could see that in everything he did in the basement at the police station, could feel it in his touch, could hear it in the silent question if John was okay.

The young deputy moves, twitches slightly with a low groan and rests his head further against the rough stone without ever waking up. The faint light of the fire makes his red hair stand out even more, makes it glow brightly, and John wonders if it's soft or coarse to the touch. He doesn't dare to linger on that thought, so he resolutely closes his eyes and forces his mind to slow down. He sleeps, knowing his body needs to recharge, but part of his senses are still firmly focussed on the young man sleeping on the other side of the tunnel.

***

“Company leader to Raven.”

It's the crackling of the radio that wakes Mitch from his restless nap. He opens his eyes and straightens with a barely suppressed groan at the pain that shoots through his body, partly caused by the unusual strain of the day, partly by the uncomfortable sleeping position.

“Company leader to Raven. Talk to me, Johnny.”

Mitch's eyes immediately seek out the figure of Rambo in the darkness and he finds him with his eyes open, staring at the radio with a strange expression on his face that Mitch can't name. The man on the radio goes on and starts to call people by their names, and Mitch can feel how every name makes Rambo more tense.

“This is Colonel Trautman. Talk to me, Johnny.”

Mitch watches how Rambo's fingers twitch, as if he has to fight the urge to respond, and Mitch guesses that the man on the radio was his commander at some point and that the deeply ingrained reaction to obey his order is still there. Mitch listens with a frown, wondering what made that colonel come here, and he wants to point out to Rambo that they're only trying to pinpoint his position. He doesn't, though, because he knows Rambo isn't stupid and is probably very well aware of it.

The silence stretches, then Rambo reaches for the radio. “They're all gone, sir.”

“Rambo. Are you all right? Over.” the colonel replies, and Mitch looks at Rambo's hand and sees it shaking ever so slightly.

“Beta team, they're all dead, sir.” His voice is so empty, so resigned, and it makes Mitch shiver. He knows this man lived through things he can't even begin to imagine, and it makes him hurt somewhere deep inside to know that there is nothing that will ever make it better.

“I'm the last one, sir.” Mitch has never heard so much loneliness, so much despair in so few words.

***

John knows they got his approximate position from the radio contact last night, and he knows he has to leave the mine. He also knows he can't take the young deputy with him, not only because he'd be a drawback and slow him down, but also because he doesn't want him in the line of fire should things get bad. It's a thought that surprises him, but he accepts it and deals with it accordingly.

He leads the redhead out of the tunnels close to the entrance of the mine and makes sure to tie his hands tight enough that he won't be able to get loose. Then he binds his hands to a cord that is firmly tied around a pillar further down the tunnel. It's a bit like a leash that's long enough to make it possible for him to move but impossible to leave the mine entirely. John knows the redhead will be found at some point by the multitude of men he knows will comb through the woods on their search for him.

“You stay here.” John says before he turns to leave. “Your men will find you. Feel free to shout for them.”

Then he's gone, slips deep into the cover of the woods.

***

There's the sound of shots being fired, and it's far too close for Mitch's liking. He gets on his feet and moves towards the entrance as far as the cord allows. He can see outside, can hear hasty footsteps and the angry shouts of men over the constant shots. Then he sees Rambo coming out of the woods, running straight towards him, and behind him there is movement. Mitch can't hide his surprise. He didn't expect to see him again, and he's quite sure Rambo didn't intend to return when he left this morning.

Suddenly bullets are hitting the wood next to Mitch, hitting the rock, the ground, flying everywhere and nowhere. Mitch feels Rambo's arm grabbing him around the waist and he's pulled back with him, deeper into the tunnel and behind a corner. Mitch can't help a surprised gasp followed quickly by an angry frown, and he wonders if the sheriff gave the order to kill Rambo no matter what, never mind that Mitch was with him. He almost feels sick at the realisation that he wouldn't even be surprised if the sheriff _had_ issued that order.

“Stay behind me.” Rambo says, cutting the cord that kept Mitch tied to the pillar. He pushes him behind his back, putting himself between the entrance and Mitch. Sure, his hands are still bound, but somehow Mitch knows Rambo doesn't consider him a danger at this moment, maybe hasn't for even longer. He never tried to intimidate Mitch, not once, and now his actions seem protective rather than threatening.

Rambo returns the fire and suddenly there's silence outside, then Mitch hears the men from the National Guard talking and shouting. He freezes when he hears the lieutenant call for the rocket launcher because he knows Clinton and he knows he sees this more as a game than reality. He'll have that rocket fired, Mitch doesn't doubt it. He feels a hand on his arm, pulling him backwards right before he hear the tell-tale sound of the shot.

***

John hears the familiar sound of a rocket launcher being locked and jumps. He jumps before he can think about it, jumps because he knows he has to protect the young deputy and his sincere innocence. Has to keep it alive because it's the only thing in this world that makes him believe that there's still something good in it.

He wraps his arms around the lean body, pulls it in front of him, uses his own body as a shield, back turned towards the entrance. The explosion rocks the mountain, earth and debris is flying everywhere and the ceiling is coming down. John feels something hit his back hard, but he ignores it, only tightens his hold on the redhead, crowds him closer, tries to reduce the surface of his body that's exposed to the explosion.

“You okay?” He hears himself ask when it's quiet again, his words tinged with worry, and it's something he hasn't felt in a long time. He lets go slowly, feels the redhead's knees give out and drag him down. He takes as much of the fall as he can, his hands frantically passing over the young man, trying to find any injuries. When he touches his temple, his hand encounters warm, slick fluid and he knows it's blood although he can't see a thing in the darkness. It makes his stomach clench painfully. He knows that feeling, remembers it from days when he had a reason to exist, and although it hurts, it makes him feel alive in a way he hadn't experienced in so long.

“You're going to be okay.” John murmurs, just like he'd done back in Nam when one of his boys had been injured. “You're going to be okay.”

There's no response, but John hadn't expected one. The limp state of the body in his arms tells him the young deputy is unconscious, but the strong beat under his fingertips when he touches his pulse point assures them he's alive.

That's all that matters.

***

Mitch wakes to the feeling of a something touching his temple. It's dark around him, and for a moment he isn't sure he has actually opened his eyes.

“Shhh, don't move.” a strangely familiar dark voice says somewhere over his head and the touch resumes. “You were hit by something in the explosion.”

“Explosion?” Mitch presses out as pain shoots through his head when he moves against better judgement.

“The rocket launcher. They blew up the entrance to the mine.” Rambo replies and continues to gently pat something soft against Mitch's temple. “Whatever hit you knocked you out. You're bleeding.”

Mitch sits still for a moment, concentrating on making the pain ease off. Surprisingly, he finds that the gentle touches to his temple make him feel better. “Thanks, partner.”

It's quiet for a long time before the rough voice above him replies, “It's John.”

Mitch chuckles, lets his head fall back against the rock he can feel in his back and extends his hand until he finds John's in the darkness. “I'm Mitch.”

“Nice to meet you, Mitch.” John says and Mitch thinks he can hear a smirk in his voice. He feels him return the shake of his hand with firm pressure.

***

John wonders what has shifted. He knows something has changed, feels it in the way the young deputy – Mitch – behaves towards him, sees it in his movements, in his eyes. John doesn't tie his hands again, he instinctively knows he doesn't need to. He's always trusted his instincts, they're the reason he survived when others didn't, so he trusts them now, too.

After he's stopped the bleeding and he knows the redhead isn't in imminent danger anymore, John takes the time to arrange a simple fireplace and get a fire burning. The faint light gives him the first opportunity to look at the young deputy – Mitch, he reminds himself – and see what damage the explosion did to him. He's dirty and and his uniform is rumpled, there are multiple scratches on his face and his hands. The hair on the side of his head, right above his temple, is caked with blood. It's not bleeding anymore, though, and that's a good sign.

“Where is my jacket?” Mitch asks after a while and John watches a shiver run through the lean body.

John points at some bloodied rags on the ground next to Mitch. He had ripped pieces off the jacket in order to press the fabric against the head wound and stop the bleeding. It was the only remotely clean cloth he'd found in the dark. Now he intends to use the rest of the fabric to clean the wound and bandage it, whatever they have left will be used for a torch.

“Ah, I get it.” Mitch replies after a moment, his gaze flickering to the rags. John takes his knife to cut the jacket in long shreds that he can use to wrap around Mitch's head and he's secretly pleased when the redhead doesn't flinch back when John comes close and touches his temple. He has an improvised but firm bandage in place only a few minutes later, then John sits back and begins to wrap the remaining fabric around a long wooden piece of debris.

Mitch watches him from where he rests against the stone and his gaze wanders to the makeshift torch, then he touches his head. A smirk appears on his lips and then John hears him chuckle. “You really know how to reuse everything, don't you?”

John allows himself a smirk in response. “I was trained to know how. It comes in handy sometimes.”

***

It's freezing. Mitch glances over at John who's apparently not bothered by the temperature at all. Since losing his jacket, every minute made the cold worse, and by now Mitch is shivering with it, unable to control his body's reaction. He can't understand how John manages not to shiver, considering that he's only wearing a tank top and an old tattered piece of canvas.

John decided they'd stay here for another hour or two to regain their strength, but Mitch is pretty sure he's only doing it out of consideration for Mitch and his injury. He knows he probably has a concussion and shouldn't be running around, but he also knows there's no other way if he wants to get out of this mine. John is just giving him the time to rest a bit for the trip that's ahead of them. Mitch wonders when he started to think in terms of 'John' and 'we', but he's too tired to analyse it. He just knows that John didn't leave him behind when he could have, when it would have been easier to just go and let him die. It's not only the cold that makes him shiver this time.

“Come here.” John says after looking at him for a while, pointing to the space right next to him. Mitch doesn't know what he wants, but somehow he trusts John not to hurt him. If he'd wanted to do that, he's had ample opportunity before. So he gets up and walks over to where John is leaning against the rough stone.

“Sit down.” the dark voice says, and it's more a request than an order, and maybe that's why Mitch doesn't hesitate to do what he's told. He settles down next to John, back stiff and still shivering, and wonders what this is about. Once he's seated, he feels John's arm settle around his shoulder, pulling him close until he's pressed with his side against John's chest and his head is resting on John's shoulder. He's surprised at the warmth that comes off John's body although he's wearing even less warm clothes than Mitch, and after a moment of awkwardness, Mitch lets go of his concern for appropriateness in favour of the tempting warmth of another body. He relaxes bit by bit, astonished how well his body fits to Johns, and finally he snuggles closer and buries his nose under John's chin where it's nice and warm.

“Sleep. You need to rest.” Mitch feels the puff of John's breath on his hair, the words low and rough, and a hand rubs over his upper arm to provide a bit of additional warmth. It only takes a few minutes and Mitch feels his hands again, his shivers are dying down, and the weight of exhaustion threatens to take over.

“Thank you.” Mitch mumbles against the warm skin under his face with the last ounce of strength right before sleep finally claims him.

***

John watches the figure in his arms, a strange mixture of emotions running through him. Mitch is fast asleep, curled up against John's body for warmth, his face pressed against John's neck and his breath is a warm caress on John's skin. He's trusting in a way he has no reason to be, and it makes John wonder if he's not the only one who's picked up on the shift that he still can't define. He feels connected to Mitch almost like he had to his team back in Nam, yet it is somehow different.

He knows, had he been alone, he'd never have rested after the explosion. He's doing it for Mitch who'd come to far more harm then he himself did, and John wants to make sure that the young man is up for the strain that's going to come once they're on the move. The mine is in a pretty bad condition, John had found that out when he'd scouted the tunnels a day ago, and he has no idea where another exit might be. He has no doubt that there is one, though, because those mines were riddled with air shafts when they were built. They just have to find one, and because that might take a while, John decided to grant Mitch some rest before they'd get going.

It's not the way he's been taught to think. It's not efficient. It's not the most logical course of action in order to survive. He knows he should just leave Mitch behind, he's a hostage and not a team member, but John knows he can't. He's never felt this protective of anybody, not even his own team. He's almost overwhelmed by the emotion.

Without being able to stop it, John reaches out and his fingers find the red of Mitch's hair where it peaks out under the bandage, and he passes through it, caresses its surprising softness. He closes his eyes to focus on his sense of smell when he lets his nose bury in the fiery red strands, taking in the faint scent of shampoo, of sweat and blood, rain and earth. There's something else, something unique that he classifies as 'Mitch', and he concentrates on it at every single breath be takes. Mitch reacts to the touch by huffing out a comfortable sigh and cuddling closer to him, never waking up.

John sighs against the soft strands and closes his arms tighter around the trusting young man. John knows he's lost, but he has no idea what to do with that knowledge.

***

The first thing he comes aware of is the comfortable warmth under his fingers and his cheek. Mitch doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes, he just stays still and takes in his surroundings. He takes in the feeling of arms wrapped around him, one hand resting on his back, one in his hair, fingers slowly moving in an unconscious caress. When he draws a breath, the smell of sweat, blood and a note he can't quite pinpoint fills his nose where it's pressed against a patch of skin that's rough with stubble. Mitch doesn't feel cold anymore, to the contrary, there is a heat spreading through his whole body that he knows only too well, and he feels himself blush. He knows he's hard even before he's entirely awake.

John doesn't say anything, but Mitch is sure he knows that he's awake. The fingers in his hair never stop moving, and Mitch feels a shiver run down his back, followed by goosebumps spreading all over his skin. They're pressed together so close that there's no way John doesn't feel it and Mitch doesn't dare to think about what he'll do. Mitch's reaction to their closeness, to John's touch, is pressed firmly against John's thigh. Mitch won't ever be able to say what it is that makes him so bold, what makes him dare something that can very well get him killed, but before he's able to think about it, to see the stupidity of his action, he has stretched, his lips pressed against Johns, his eyes screwed shut in the expectation of a punch.

It never comes.

Instead, he feels the body beneath his stiffen for a short yet incredibly long moment, then it relaxes and the hand on his back splays out to pull him closer. The mouth under his opens with a low groan and a tongue touches his lips, passes over them in a wordless question. Mitch doesn't hesitate for a moment, he knows he wants this although he has no idea what 'this' means. He has moved to straddle John only a second later, his mouth wide open and his tongue deep inside John's mouth. He's met with equal passion, as if the restraint on John's temper is broken, and it makes his arousal grow tenfold when he feels John's reaction to his touch.

He's never experienced something this strong, this intense. It's like a drug, and he knows he's already addicted.

***

The moment warm lips meet his, John feels his control slip. He responds to every touch like he's starved for it, and maybe he is. He can't remember the last time somebody touched him in pleasure, in passion, in mindless desire, and it makes him go wild. He bites Mitch's bottom lip and hears him groan into his mouth, never flinching back but returning his roughness in kind. It turns him on beyond reason.

His hands find a way under Mitch's uniform, find the hot skin of his back, his sides, his stomach. His fingers get rid of the belt and he wraps his fingers around the hardness he'd felt pressed against his thigh. Mitch's hips buck under his touch and he groans in John's mouth, then his lips leave John's and fasten on his neck.

“John... yes, John...” Mitch's voice is hoarse and he doesn't make any effort to keep quiet. He rambles with every jerk of John's hands, and John feels the fingers that wander over his own skin, that are no less determined to get where they want to be. Only a moment later, they slip inside his jeans, take hold of him and the pressure is exactly what John wanted. He lets his head fall back against the stone wall, eyes closed so he can concentrate only on feeling, on taste, on smell.

Mitch's hips buck again and again in John's tight grip, his free hand fisted firmly in John's hair, pulling his head back to alternately kiss him deeply or to bite his neck, and John hands over his control. He closes his fist a bit tighter, moves a bit quicker when he feels himself come close, and Mitch's lips leave his neck in a pant.

“Johnny!”

It's this affectionate version of his name, groaned in that deep voice hoarse with pleasure, that pushes him over the edge. It's the feeling of hot wetness covering his hand when Mitch comes, of shudders that wreck the body above him.

It's messy and hurried and they never even lose their clothes, but to John, it's perfect.

***

Mitch is breathing hard and he feels as if all energy has left his body. What keeps him upright are John's arms around his waist, pulling him in. His head is resting on John's shoulder, his hand is still buried in John's hair. He has the distinct feeling that the only thing keeping John upright is the tunnel wall in his back. The though makes him smirk and he can't help a chuckle. “Never expected that.”

“Me neither.” John replies against his neck, and Mitch can feel him smile against his skin.

They just stay the way they are, Mitch still straddling John's thighs. He's pressed close to John's body and he secretly takes pleasure in the feeling of the strong arms around him, never loosening their hold. He allows his body to recover from their recent activities, knowing John is doing the same. But he knows they've already spent too much time here, that they need to move before hunger and lack of drinking water become a problem.

“We have to go.” Mitch mumbles against John's neck. He's not above trailing his tongue over the skin, tasting the salt of sweat, feeling the warmth of his flesh. John shivers under the touch, almost unnoticeable, but Mitch feels it and smiles.

“Yes.” John replies, his voice a note too low to be called casual.

It takes them a few more minutes before they separate, clean up and get ready to leave. The way through the mine is long and chaotic. Mitch mostly just follows John, understanding that he traces the air circulation with the help of the makeshift torch. He loses every sense of time in the eternal darkness of the tunnels, only the growling of his stomach helps him to define how long they've been down here. When they leave the mine after what feels like days, the air is fresh and cool in a way Mitch has almost forgotten down in the humid maze of the shafts.

When he glances over the edge of the shaft of the mine, Mitch realises that they're close to the gorge. Some feet away, there are men passing by, wearing the dark green uniforms of the National Guard. Mitch follows them with his gaze, careful to stay behind the greenery to avoid giving away their position.

It's when he thinks about how he and John are supposed to get around them that he notices that sometime in the past day, he has changed sides. It doesn't surprise him as much as it probably should.

***

“You stay here.” John says after a moment of watching the retreating men of the National Guard. He hadn't know where they'd come out of the mine, but this is a fortunate coincidence. He wants Mitch out of harm's way, therefore taking him with him is not an option. “You can easily join them. Tell them you got out on your own.”

“No, John.” When he turns to look at Mitch, he finds an intense gaze directed at him. Mitch is still crouched down, but his body language clearly states that he refuses to follow John's suggestion. “I won't leave.”

“You can't be involved in this.” It almost physically hurts John to say those words, to insist on sending Mitch away. He has never experienced this feeling before, and he doesn't like it.

“I already am involved, John.” Mitch replies calmly, and John knows he's right. Mitch was involved from the moment John took him hostage. What has happened between them in the mine certainly hasn't helped to establish distance, John thinks with a good measure of self-irony.

“Go, Mitch.” John tries to sound threatening, but somehow he knows it won't work on the redhead. Not anymore.

“I won't leave you here, John.” Mitch says and John can see a firmness in the blue eyes that tells him that he means every single word. A hand finds John's neck in a strong grip and Mitch pulls him closer, eyes never leaving John's. “We'll get out of this together.”

John feels his throat tighten at the words, at the expression in Mitch's face. Loyalty. He hasn't felt it in so long, and it only hardens his resolve. Without hesitating a moment, John executes a quick, strong hit to Mitch's neck. He promptly sags down, knocked unconscious. John catches him and eases him on the ground.

He has to do this alone. He can't pull Mitch into his mess any more than he already did.

He won't risk Mitch's life.

***

When he comes to, the first thing Mitch is aware of is the pain in his neck. He groans and clenches his teeth when he sits up. He doesn't have to look around to know John's gone. He doesn't have to remember to know that it was John who knocked him out. And he knows why.

That doesn't mean that he's just going to accept his decision.

When Mitch finally arrives in town, it's a mess. There's chaos everywhere, fires burning, police pulling their forces together. He has no idea what John has done, but whatever it is, he has to find a way to stop him before he gets himself shot. Mitch knows he can't let that happen.

He'd take that bullet himself it that's what it takes.

***

“Somebody has to go in there, and I have the advantage of his trust.” Colonel Trautman tells Dave from the State Police. They're in front of the police station and have taken cover behind a car. “It's all we need.”

“No.” A firm voice says behind him. “I'll go.”

Trautman turns and his gaze finds a young man standing behind him. What surprises him most isn't that fact that he's there - a young deputy, according to his uniform – but the fact that he didn't ask. He stated. If it's his posture, his eyes or his voice Trautman can't say, but he knows there is no doubt that the young man will go, whether Trautman agrees or not. There's a firmness to him that belies his age, and it tells Trautman that he won't be able to stop him without physically incapacitating him.

“Who are you?” He knows the answer before the words have left his mouth. This must be the deputy John had taken hostage – a very unusual action in itself, Trautman knows, because for John it's easier to move alone, especially in this hostile environment. Now that he looks at the young deputy, though, Trautman begins to understand why John did it.

“Deputy Mitch Keller.” the young man replies without hesitation, eyes never leaving Trautman's.

“You were with him.” Trautman makes it a statement, not a question, because there is no doubt about it.

“Yes.”

“Why would you take the risk to go in there if you don't have to?” Trautman asks, his voice hard and cold. He needs to know what this boy is made of.

“Because I want him to live.” It's a simple answer, and yet it is not. Trautman is sure this young man has seen enough of John to understand the double entendre of his words, and he's equally sure that that's exactly why he chose this phrasing.

Trautman smirks. Maybe John does have a chance of a future, after all.

***

“Johnny.” This voice, so familiar, so low, so rough. “Don't.”

John has the gun pointed at that bastard of a sheriff, and he wants nothing more than to pull the trigger. But that voice, it's like an anchor, it pulls him back. The words are not an order, they're a request. There's hope and worry and care in that voice, and that's all it takes to break John's anger.

He feels his hand beginning to shake, feels his breath coming in pants, feels the pain and the desperation and the anger and the confusion all blend together into a mixture that is too much for him to take. He sees images he wants so desperately to forget, sees blood and body parts and faces, memories that are etched into his very being and that he isn't sure he can ever leave behind.

He looks up, finds those blue eyes on him, finds concern in them, but no fear, never fear. No judgement, no damnation. Only honest affection, something he hasn't seen directed at him for so long that it breaks him. John can't hold back the words, the tears, doesn't even try to.

There are arms wrapped around him only seconds later, and John allows himself to let go for the first time in his life.

***

John breaks down, right in front of him, cracked barriers giving and a wave of emotions washing over him. It shakes John to his core, shakes his body and his voice, makes it crack with pain and despair. When the first sob wrenches out of John's throat, Mitch is down on his knees next to him, John's hands reaching out to him, clenching in his uniform shirt. Mitch bends over, wraps his arms around the broken man and pulls him close.

“I've got you, Johnny.” Mitch murmurs into the dark hair, his hands stroking over the shaking back, his arms tightening around the strong body. He holds on with everything he is, trying to be strong, to offer comfort, to reassure. He won't leave John to this pain if there is anything he can do to ease it. Anything. Even if helps only a tiny bit.

“I've got you.” he repeats quietly and presses his lips to John's temple.

***

The brightness of the floodlights blinds him for a moment and he stops on the porch. John looks over the red and blue lights of the police cars, taking a deep breath of the cold night air. At the bottom of the stairs stands the Colonel, his face raised, looking at John, giving a little nod.

Mitch is right next to John, so close that his shoulder touches John's. His hand is a firm, reassuring pressure against the small of John's back, his thumb slowly tracing over the worn fabric of his shirt, and John knows he might be the last one left over from Beta team, but he's not alone anymore.

He has found a partner.


End file.
